Where the Rain Falls Softest

chapter 1

Fontaine City never truly dried.

The rain fell gently that morning, brushing against the rooftops and winding through the canals like a lullaby. It wasn't the kind of storm that brought thunder or panic—just a quiet, constant drizzle that soaked the cobblestone streets and made the world feel softer.

Neuvillette stood beneath the arch of a marble walkway overlooking the Grand Narrows. His hands were folded behind his back, posture elegant, unmoving. To the world, he was the image of composure, of eternal poise. But the sky, in its way, betrayed him—speaking in droplets the things he could never say aloud.

He had woken feeling... heavier today. The kind of heaviness that couldn't be reasoned with or explained. Only carried.

"Your Honor?"

The voice was low, warm, grounded. It pulled Neuvillette gently from his thoughts.

Wriothesley approached, wearing his usual dark attire and a coat that shrugged off the rain like it was nothing. He held two cups in his gloved hands—one of which he extended without ceremony.

"You left before breakfast again," he said. "Figured you'd forget to eat."

Neuvillette took the offered cup, fingers brushing Wriothesley's for just a second too long. "Thank you."

"You really ought to consider getting some rest," Wriothesley added. "Or are you planning to out-stubborn the weather itself?"

Neuvillette allowed a quiet smile, small but sincere. "The weather and I... are quite familiar."

Wriothesley gave him a look—half teasing, half curious—but said nothing more. He leaned beside him against the stone railing, watching the rain-speckled water below.

They stood like that for a while, the silence between them comfortable.

It wasn't always like this. When they'd first started speaking beyond the necessary reports and legal inquiries, there had been a distance—a natural one, born of titles, reputation, and restraint. But over time, something had shifted. Neuvillette didn't quite remember when it happened, only that he had started seeking Wriothesley's presence with increasing frequency. The man was uncomplicated in his steadiness, and rare in his sincerity.

Perhaps that was what Neuvillette needed most. Someone who did not look at him like a symbol. Someone who didn't flinch from his silences.

Wriothesley took a sip from his own cup, then glanced sideways. "You always show up when it rains."

Neuvillette hesitated. "Is that so strange?"

"No," Wriothesley said. "But it makes me wonder."

A gust of cool wind swept through, carrying with it the scent of rain and something older—something ancient that stirred in Neuvillette's blood. He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the water as it kissed the stone below.

"There are things I carry that the people of Fontaine will never see," he said at last, voice quiet. "But sometimes... I think you do."

Wriothesley didn't respond immediately. He didn't pry, didn't question. He simply stood a little closer, his presence solid and sure beside Neuvillette's stillness.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I think I do, too."